


Practice Makes Perfect

by Sheeana



Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheeana/pseuds/Sheeana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint worries about consequences. Kate's still grieving for her best friend. They manage anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice Makes Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zarabithia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/gifts).



> I saw your prompt and I really loved it, so I wrote this treat. Happy Yuletide!
> 
> This takes place a few years after Cassie dies, when Kate's nineteen.

The thunk of an arrow finding its intended target was the most satisfying noise Kate knew anymore - except for the sound of _two_ arrows finding their intended targets. She liked to think of them as problem-solvers. The arrows and her partner.

"Hawkeye," she said, in acknowledgement.

"Hawkeye." He gave her a two-fingered salute. They slung their bows over their backs in unison, and left their handiwork to be found by someone else. Hopefully the media before the police, because there was nothing Kate liked better than seeing a picture of their target on the front page, pinned through his clothes by two arrows to a wall and trying to hide his face from the camera.

"Coffee?" Clint asked, as they emerged from the warehouse, changed back into their street clothes.

"You drink coffee at six o'clock in the evening?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

And that was how she ended up with her back to the front door of Clint's apartment as he kissed her.

Well, maybe not. Maybe there were a few steps in between. There might have been a subtle brush of her hand against his, as they waited in line at the coffee shop. There might also have been two fingers hooked into his belt in the car. There might even have been a kiss in the elevator, somewhere between the seventh and eleventh floors, and it may or may not have been the most satisfying kiss of Kate's life.

But however they ended up here, they were here now, and Kate desperately wanted Clint to stop squeezing her waist and start taking her clothes off, but he seemed pretty happy doing what he was doing. Sometimes he needed a nudge, though. She ran her hand down his chest to the waistband of his pants - and he kept kissing her, apparently oblivious. Well, okay. Sometimes he needed more of a shove. She fingered the button of his pants.

"... Oh," he said, like he was just realizing something very, very important. "... Ah."

Ten minutes later she was lying underneath him on his bed, and his lips were on her bare shoulder. Their clothes were strewn across the floor from the kitchen to his bedroom. 

His fingertips were like hers, callused and worn from using his bow so often. She loved the way they felt against her skin, a rough texture coupled with a gentle touch. So she returned the favor. The sound that came from his mouth - somewhere in between a gasp and a moan and maybe a bit of a whimper - made her break the kiss and laugh breathlessly against him.

"That's not fair. You're not playing by the rules."

"What, you can do it and I can't?"

"I didn't say stop. I said it's not fair."

"Big difference?"

" _Big_ difference." 

Then their mouths were busy again. 

-

After, they lay on their backs beside each other and stared up at the stucco on the ceiling of Clint's embarrassing excuse for a living space. For a few minutes, all Kate could do was breathe heavily and wait for the sweat to cool on her skin. Then she rolled over to look at Clint - and found him wide-eyed and looking a little bit terrified.

"... I shouldn't have done that," he said, his voice hoarse, staring upwards.

"Why not?" Kate wasn't sure if she should feel insulted or not yet. 

"You're... you, and I'm me, and we had a thing. I liked our thing. We were good at our thing."

"Thanks," she said dryly.

"Nah, come on, it's not like that. You're supposed to be-"

"We're not having this discussion, Clint. I'm nineteen, and you're not my teacher."

"That doesn't mean I'm supposed to sleep with you, either."

"So I'm allowed to go out and risk my life, it's just sleeping with me that's dangerous."

"No. Yeah. ... Maybe," he said, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to get her to tell him which one was the right answer.

"You're hopeless, _and_ you're an idiot."

"I've been around the block a few times, Katie. Maybe more than a few times. I don't usually make it all the way, if you know what I'm saying." Clint didn't even seem to know exactly what he was saying, because he looked confused by the time he got to the end of his metaphor.

"Yeah? How many of them were me?"

"... That _is_ a good point."

"Will you stop trying to run away? I want to be here. That's what matters." She settled in beside him again, her arm casually draped across his chest. Maybe (she hoped) if she acted like this was no big deal, Clint would take the hint and stop feeling guilty. "Night."

It seemed to work. Clint hesitantly and awkwardly tried to wrap an arm around her. "Night, girlie."

"... Don't call me that in bed ever again."

-

When she woke up, the bright red numbers on Clint's ancient alarm clock read 2:57. She looked down at him, still asleep. 

It hit her all at once, and she didn't know why. It had been years. She'd moved on. They all had. Just, sometimes, she was doing something and suddenly she was back there, watching her best friend die while she was helpless to do anything, and it hurt to breathe again. Grief was like that, she remembered, from after her mother died. It didn't respect her schedule very well.

 _Not now,_ she pleaded with herself. Now was a bad time. But apparently her brain didn't want to listen to reason, today, because a moment later she was hiding her face against her knees and trying not to cry. This wasn't going to work in favor of her I'm-rational-enough-to-handle-sleeping-with-you argument if Clint woke up. She almost succeeded in staying silent, except she had to breathe, and when she did she accidentally let out the sob she was holding in.

Clint made a noise against his pillow. By the time he rolled over, blinking blearily at her, she thought she'd pulled herself together enough to face him.

"It's late. Or early. Something. Go to sleep," he said.

"I will," she said, absently tracing a circle on the sheets over her knee, imagining it was the center of a painted target.

"You're making me nervous. Lie down."

"You came back."

The expression on Clint's face instantly shifted from slightly annoyed to concerned. Kate could see the exact moment when he realized what she was talking about - right when any hint of a smile disappeared from around his lips. He wasn't difficult to read once she got to know him. Actually, scratch that. He wasn't difficult to read period.

"That's not-" Clint started to say.

"Steve Rogers came back."

"Katie-"

"Why can't Cassie come back? Why did we just stand there when Nate said he could save her? Why-"

"Listen to me, Katie," Clint said, grabbing her by the arms. "Listen. Nothing good's ever gonna come of thinking like that. Trust me. I know."

"That's easy for you to say."

"You think I never lost anyone I care about?"

Clint's answer startled Kate, because he was right - she hadn't thought about that at all. "No, I-"

"'Cause I have. Come's with the job title."

"It wasn't her job to be there."

"Well, I dunno. She wanted to be there, right? Were you supposed to tell her to stay home? I mean, picture me telling Captain America to stay home."

Admittedly, it was a ridiculous mental image. Kate still felt bothered by something. "What she wanted-"

"Doesn't matter, yeah, except it kinda does, Katie."

"But-"

"It's never easy, but you gotta tell yourself that people like that are worth knowing."

And then she was pressing her face against his shoulder and crying, and he was kissing her hair, and maybe it wasn't the worst thing that ever happened but she thought it was pretty close. His arms were around her and he was stroking her back, not even trying to tell her it was okay because he seemed to know that now wasn't the time. 

The clock read 3:35 when she looked up again.

When he seemed satisfied that she wasn't going to start sobbing all over him again, Clint left her on the bed to go find his clothes. For a minute, Kate thought she'd done something wrong and messed this up completely, but he came back in trying to tug his shirt over his head and threw something at her.

"Here."

She picked it up and gaped. "Did you just throw my underwear at me?"

"Looks like it."

"You're sure you slept with an actual woman before? An actual woman agreed to sleep with you."

"You're an actual woman."

"You're so clueless." Kate shook her head, but she was smiling now.

"Never said I wasn't. C'mon. I know a great 24-hour pizza place just down the street."

"You really know how to make a girl happy, Clint."

"Takes practice." He tossed one sock at her, and then another. She caught the second one and threw it right back; he didn't step out of the way fast enough to avoid it hitting him square in the chest. _Bulls-eye_. 

Lately, she wasn't feeling too sure about most of what was going on in her life. Right now, though, she was sure about one thing: this wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened.


End file.
